What We Do
by LastLeaf
Summary: Having aged out of the Reaping, Katniss's life goals are to avoid the mines, provide for her family, and not make the kind of attachments that lead to broken hearts. For Peeta, it's to inherit his late father's bakery. But will their burgeoning feelings for each other spoil their plans? After all, no match between a Townie and a person from the Seam has ever had a happy ending.
1. Sunday Light

_A/N: If this chapter looks familiar, it's because it was submitted for the final round of Prompts in Panem on Tumblr (and it's on Ao3).  
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I should have stayed home.

I've been repeating it like a mantra all morning. I said it just after dawn in the woods when a thorny blackberry bush snagged my shirt, leaving angry pink trails up my arm. I said it again when some late-season wildflowers – ones I'd been meaning to take home to my mother and Prim to dry and turn into medicine – had been destroyed by the year's first frost. Whenever I looked up at the colorless sky that's persistently threatened to open up and pelt me with rain, I said it then, too. It was even worse in the Hob, today being what it is. Some, who'd seen me with Gale over the years, offered me congratulations. They probably wondered what I was doing there with dirty hair and clothes, game bag slung over my shoulder, instead of at the Justice Building where he was, in his best trousers and the shirt he'd worn to his last two reapings. Most others, who knew better, just looked at me with eyes full of pity. I honestly don't know which bothered me more.

It's not like I'm losing anything today, I tell myself. Whatever it was that Gale and I were has been lost for some time. Still, I should have stayed home.

When I think back on everything that went wrong between us, my mind always seems to drift back to a little over three years ago, on Reaping Day when I was sixteen. That morning we sat in our place on the rock ledge facing the valley, feasting on berries and soft bakery bread and Prim's goat cheese. Remembering the puzzling comments he made, I should have known deep down what he wanted, while I thought I'd made it perfectly clear what I _didn't_ want.

It isn't uncommon in District Twelve for young couples to get married soon after their final reaping. And though there was nothing romantic between us, it seemed that was exactly what Gale had in mind. It's what everyone else expected, too. The seamstress, like the mayor, loves strawberries, and one time when I was at her shop to trade she told me no less than three times how much it would cost to rent a white dress. Darius, who'd tug at my braid and joke about trading game for kisses, lamented that he'd have to stop teasing me once Gale made an honest woman out of me. Gale, too, started making these cryptic little remarks like, _Someday when we get our own place..._ or _Don't you think autumn's the best season to have a toasting?_ But what really set me off was the time he came across the tiny bow my father had made me when I was young and made some offhanded comment about one day teaching his son or daughter to hunt. Then he slipped and referred to the child as _ours_. It launched the worst argument we'd ever had.

I told him I was never going to have kids, and how could _he_ , knowing what kind of a world he'd be bringing them into? To face sickness, starvation, the reaping. When he spoke of escaping to the woods, I told him he was being naïve. We'd get caught, for starters. If it were just the two of us, it would be hard enough to pull off, but our families are too large, especially his. And how could we even think of leaving them? I'd never be able to live without Prim. Besides, I had better things to do than become another Hawthorne baby machine. As soon as those words left my mouth I knew it sounded like a dig at Hazelle. I suppose it sort of was.

In Gale's steely eyes I could see that familiar fire that usually ignited whenever he ranted and raved about the Capitol. Only this time it was directed toward me.

We screamed at each other until we grew hoarse, scaring off all the game within a mile radius. When we were done, Gale dumped half the contents of his bag at my feet and then stalked off toward home.

It would be months before we'd speak again.

With Gale working full-time in the mines, I made sure to go to the woods during the week when I knew he wouldn't be there. Gale started teaching his brothers to hunt on his only day off. So on Sundays I stayed home with Prim. I mostly helped her tend to Lady. Milking. Making cheese. Fixing up the wooden house we built to shield her from the elements.

It's what I'd be doing right now were it any other Sunday. But today I could go out freely. Rory was nice enough to drop by last night and let me know that Gale wouldn't be hunting this morning in case I wanted to venture out there. Of course, that isn't the real reason he came over. Everyone knows he has a crush on Prim. Greasy Sae likes to joke that it's the worst kept secret in the district. I can't help but feel a little bad for him, though. In the last year or so my sister has developed a strong interest in boys, but she has a very specific type. And Rory, with his dark hair and gray Seam eyes, isn't it.

I hesitate when I reach the back door of the bakery. I could always count on the baker to give me a few rolls for one of my squirrels, provided his wife wasn't around, but he's been dead over a year. He lived just long enough to watch all three of his sons age out of the reaping before dropping dead from a brain aneurysm a month later. I've traded with his oldest son a few times since. He's about as talkative as his father was, though not nearly as friendly. He doesn't live there anymore. I hear he got married a few weeks ago. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.

There's no yelling, the tell-tale sign that the baker's widow is around, so I knock. When the door opens, I recognize the man who answers. The middle Mellark son. "Squirrels, right?" he asks. I nod.

He starts to head back inside. When I make no move to follow, he adds, "I'm supposed to be watching a pot. Just come in. We can haggle from there." I'm still frozen in my spot as he regards me carefully. "If it's my mother you don't want to see, don't worry about it. She's at the Cartwrights' playing cards. Does it every Sunday, so this would be a good day to come trade, for future reference."

"I don't usually come out on Sundays," I say. By next week it will be business as usual for Gale. Sure, he'll be living in his new house. With his new wife. He'll still need to eat, though. And I still plan to avoid him.

"Any other day's good too," he tells me. "Even when she's home she doesn't come downstairs much anymore." He peers back inside. "Look, if I don't get back in there I might end up burning the place down." This time when he turns around, I do follow.

I've never actually been inside before. I could never afford to buy anything, and all my trading has occurred outside the back door. When I cross the threshold I'm immediately assaulted by warm, sugary bakery air. The scent hangs heavy around us, and I can't imagine how anyone can live here and not be near-mad with hunger all the time.

The middle Mellark – I can't remember his name – heads to a stovetop against the rear wall of the kitchen and starts halfheartedly stirring something that's simmering in a giant metal pot. That's when I see him. The only Mellark whose name I've bothered to learn. Peeta doesn't see me. He's standing at the counter in the center of the room only a few feet away, his eyes fixed on the cake he's decorating. And now I _know_ I should have stayed home. Because even though people from the Seam can rarely, if ever, afford cake, or bread for that matter, I can't shake the idea that it's for Gale. It seems I can't escape this day no matter where I go.

The cake in question is small, about the size of an acorn squash, and frosted in a shade of green that reminds me of spring leaves. I watch as Peeta pipes brightly-colored flowers around the perimeter, similar to the wildflowers that grow along the edge of the Meadow. Orange tiger lilies and blue chicory blossoms and sunny yellow dandelions. For just a moment he looks up and his eyes latch onto mine. I wonder if the dandelions spark the same memory for him. Is that why he's looking at me? Because he expects me to acknowledge it? I know I should say something, but I'm not sure what. I had no intention of coming here to talk about anything not relating to squirrels. Before I can even try to work up the nerve, I'm aware of a voice in the distance. It must be directed toward me, because Peeta's gaze goes back to the cake in front of him. His brother watches me expectantly.

"What?" I ask.

"I said I've never eaten squirrel before," the-Mellark-who-isn't-Peeta says. "They any good?"

I don't know how to answer. I've never had the luxury of choosing my meals based on how they taste. During the leanest winters Greasy Sae makes a vile stew using the meat from caught mice, chopped up pine bark, and maybe some pig entrails taken from the back of the butcher shop, and I'll devour a bowlful of the stuff. I'll eat just about anything that won't kill me. But I am trying to sell these. "They're good," I tell him, trying to sound as convincing as possible.

He raises an eyebrow and then gives me a look as if studying me. "It's funny, you coming in today," he says. "We were just talking about you, weren't we, Peeta?" Peeta doesn't acknowledge his brother's question, but for some reason his cheeks and the tips of his ears turn pink. His brother continues, nodding toward the cake. "When the order came in we thought you were the bride."

So it _is_ for Gale. Suddenly the promise of bakery bread is a lot less appealing than it was a moment ago. "Well, you thought wrong." It's only after I say it that I realize my teeth are clenched.

"I recognized the name," he goes on. He runs his spoon limply through the pale yellow custard bubbling in the pot and then turns his back to it so he's facing me. "Gale Hawthorne. We were in the same year in school. Saw you and him together a lot. And then it was the mayor's daughter who came in to place the order. Peeta here says you were friends or something, so we both kind of figured…"

I feel my face grow warmer, and I know it's not from the heat of the ovens. The idea of them discussing me unsettles me even more than the gossip at the Hob. Frankly, I'm surprised the baker's youngest sons even know who I am. All I know is that I'm done talking about Gale and weddings and cakes. If the bakery floor could somehow open up and swallow me whole, I think I'd welcome it right about now.

"Rye," Peeta speaks for the first time since I arrived, and points toward the bubbling pot. "Watch what you're doing." His face is flushed. He looks agitated. I wonder if he's not used to outsiders standing in his kitchen while he's trying to work. I guess I would be bothered by some stranger breaking my concentration, too.

Rye, I guess his name is, rolls his eyes and then makes a big show of vigorously stirring the custard, causing some of it to slosh over the side and sizzle against the flat surface of the stove. I clear my throat to get his attention. "Hey, Peeta," he shouts over his shoulder. "You're the one who eats the squirrels. What are they worth? A couple rolls? The day-olds?"

I glance over at Peeta, who seems intent on looking anywhere but at me. "Dad usually gave three or four, depending on the quality of the trade," he says. "So...four. From today."

Rye lets go of the spoon in his hand, causing it to land with a graceless thud. "Sounds like you can probably handle it from here then," he says. "I'm going out." He brushes past me and heads straight for the back door.

"I thought you were watching the pot," I call out to him. Isn't that why he made me come inside in the first place?

He looks at me and shrugs. Then, to Peeta, says, "If the thing starts smoking or anything, take it off the stove, okay?" As he leaves he mouths something to his brother that looks like _you're welcome_ , even though it doesn't make sense. Why would Peeta be thanking him? For sticking him with extra work? Anyway, Peeta doesn't look very thankful.

And then it's just the two of us.

I've never been alone with him before. I've hardly even seen him when he wasn't with his family or several of his blond-haired blue eyed friends, surrounding him like a fence. One I could never slip under. It never felt right going up to him then. That would have been too...humiliating, I guess. I'm not even sure whose embarrassment I was sparing. Mine? His? I know I should say something, but the words stick in my mouth like wild honey.

"Give me just a second," Peeta says, "and then we can, you know...the squirrels." He goes to the stove to add spots of butter and a spoonful of some kind of dark liquid into the mixture. He whisks out the lumps, and then transfers it into a bowl. It's now that I can smell the final ingredient. Vanilla. I've only ever smelled vanilla before. Never tasted it. I can't help but stare longingly while he lightly dusts it with sugar.

I think he catches me staring, because he grabs a clean spoon and extends it toward me. "Here. You can taste some if you like," he says softly. "It's okay. My brothers and I do it all the time. How else are we going to know if what we're selling is any good?"

I shake my head, mortified. No, that won't do at all. I'm supposed to be paying him back, not taking anything else.

After several seconds of uncomfortable silence, Peeta sets the spoon aside and then covers the bowl before putting it into the icebox. When he's done he stands awkwardly, a little fidgety, flexing his fingers as if he doesn't know what to do with himself.

Before I have a chance to say anything, the front bell pings. Peeta gives me a quick apologetic smile and tells me he'll be right back before crossing into the front room. To my surprise he returns just a moment later, along with Madge Undersee. This can't possibly be normal bakery protocol, bringing paying customers all the way back to the kitchen.

She offers me a weak smile when she sees me and I make an effort to return it. Her nose is red, as are her eyes, the fragile skin around them puffy, like she's just been crying or sneezing.

"How are you?" Peeta asks her, in a way that doesn't strike me as small-talk.

"Resigned to spinsterhood, I think," she answers dryly, and with more familiarity than I expected. Almost as if they're friends. But then, we've been out of school for over a year. For all I know, they could be.

Peeta says something in response that I don't catch, because something Rye had said earlier flits back into my mind. Madge ordered the cake. Madge, who has no connection whatsoever to Gale and Leevy's wedding. Except maybe the bride. Leevy works for the Undersees, planting flowers and trimming their lawn and hedges. I suppose they could be friends, too. That's one of the nice things about Madge. She was never overly concerned about class boundaries. But Gale is, despite acknowledging that it's to the Capitol's benefit to keep class lines divided. I wonder how he feels about the mayor's daughter buying his wedding cake. Something about this gnaws away at me. He knew Madge and I were friendly, yet he couldn't be bothered to be civil to her. But now that she and _Leevy_ are friends, suddenly he's not too proud to accept charity. "Gale's really okay with this?" I ask. "The cake?"

"He doesn't know," Madge admits. "In fact, Leevy kept trying to tell me no, but I insisted. She said, in that case, I'm under strict instructions to make sure his sister sees it first. He can't say no to Posy."

"You and Leevy must be good friends," I say stiffly.

"She's a hard person to hate. Try as one might." Then she flushes, as if she hadn't meant to say that last part out loud. It's a funny thing for her to say, at any rate. But I can't help but feel the same.

Peeta, meanwhile, has boxed up the cake and hands it to Madge. "Well, it was a very nice thing to do. You'll have to tell me how everyone liked it the next time I see you."

"Oh, no," Madge says. "I'm not staying. The daughter of the bride's employer would stick out like a sore thumb. But you'll be there, right, Katniss?"

The words fly out of my mouth before I can consider them. "No. Why would I be?" Even _I'm_ taken aback by how cold I sound.

To Madge's credit, she appears unfazed. If anything, she looks sympathetic. I can't read Peeta's expression. He must think I'm awful.

Madge doesn't stay much longer after that. With her gone, I'm left with only Peeta and my bag of squirrels. I should say something, I tell myself again. I may never get another chance. "I didn't know you knew Madge."

"I don't, really," he says. "I never talked to her much before a few days ago. Wish I had. Turns out we have something in common."

"Oh." It's the only word that comes to me readily.

"So you're really not going to your friend's toasting, huh?" he asks. "Wouldn't you want him to come to yours?"

"I'm never having one," I say, a little startled by his questions.

And there it is again. That silence. For a moment it becomes unbearably awkward until Peeta finally speaks. "So...I guess we -"

"Thank you," I blurt out.

He blinks at me a couple times, his brow creased in confusion. He probably thinks I've gone mad. Those words would have made a lot more sense seven years ago.

"The bread," I clarify, feeling stupid all of a sudden. "From…before. You probably don't even remember…"

His eyes soften. "I remember."

I try to calculate exactly how many squirrels I should offer him. His father had given Gale an entire loaf for just one squirrel once, but that was Reaping Day, and it was plain white bread. The loaves Peeta gave me were heartier, with dried fruit and nuts baked into them. I might have to give him everything in my bag. And even that wouldn't be enough.

"I have six right now, but I could bring you more," I say. "Probably not for another week, though."

That same look of confusion from before, the one that makes that space between his eyes crinkle, comes back.

I hold up my bag to him.

"Katniss," he says gently, "I'm not going to accept one of your squirrels without paying for it. You really don't have to give me anything."

His refusal shouldn't bother me. I was counting on those squirrels to trade. The rolls, especially, would have been nice. Bread has been scarce at our house lately, since the very last of my tesserae grain ran out a little over three months ago. When Prim's fifteenth birthday arrived, I wouldn't let her sign up for more. It isn't worth it. I may be safe from the Games forever, but Prim has three years left. Even so, this overwhelming need to pay him back is making me slightly defensive. "What? Suddenly you're too good for squirrel?"

"That's not it," he says with far too much patience for someone I just snapped at. "Your squirrels are just as good as anything I could get from the butcher. I gave you damaged merchandise. It's not a fair trade. Maybe…maybe if you found one that's missing a couple limbs or something…" He trails off with a light chuckle.

I realize he's only kidding, but he did a lot more than give me _damaged merchandise_. Surely he knows that if he remembers the incident at all. If he remembers the sight of me emaciated and half-dead in the rain. Well, if he's going to make light of it, then he deserves to have me play along. "I could cut the arms and legs off some of these if you want," I offer.

Peeta blanches at this, as if he expects me to do it right now on the same surface he just used to frost Gale and Leevy's cake.

"I've got a knife with me. I could do it outside," I add.

The offer makes him grimace. "Katniss...no."

"I owe you _something._ What do you want then?"

"You really won't let this go? Even if I tell you that I've never expected anything from you?"

"I owe you," I say again, more firmly this time.

He sighs. "Well, I won't be taking your squirrels. They're too good to just be given away, but…seeing as my brother's taken off, I can always use some help here. That is, if you don't mind spending the day with me. If you hate it, you'll never have to see me again. I promise. If you ever come by the bakery to trade while I'm here, I'll dive behind the kneading table so you won't have to look at me. How's that?"

There's something about the teasing smile he gives me that causes that frostiness between us to thaw just a little bit. I feel one corner of my mouth turn slightly upward in spite of myself. "And that's really all you want?" I ask. "That would make us even?"

His grin brightens. "That would make us even."

I can't even begin to tell him how wrong he is. How a few bakery chores won't possibly compare to what he did for me. But he does seem to need the help. Maybe I won't be able to pay him back all at once. It might have to be a gradual process. "Okay," I tell him.

He places my game bag in the icebox on a shelf containing a few pieces of wrapped butcher meat, and moves toward a line of bowls covered with cloth that sit against the wall on a counter across the room. One by one, he places them on the kneading table in the center of the kitchen. I stand across from him as he uncovers them, revealing risen dough that jut out of their bowls like swollen stomachs. Peeta explains to me that in order for the bread to have an even texture it needs to be punched down, otherwise it might end up with holes in it or something.

"Punch it?" I ask. This is so different than making the flat loaves from tessarae grain at home. I always assumed that bakery bread is better because it uses finer ingredients. Maybe the real problem is that our bread doesn't suffer enough in the making of it.

Peeta makes a fist and lowers it into the bowl. "See? Like that," he says. He has me wash my hands while he flours the other side of the counter.

I imitate Peeta's demonstration, and when he's satisfied with what I've done, he takes the dough out of its bowl and kneads it on the floured surface while I work on a second. As my knuckles connect with the soft mixture, leaving fist-shaped craters behind, I can feel the tension start to unfurl itself from its tightly coiled state inside of me. I imagine it's that cake under my fist instead. I hit harder.

After our fight, Gale and I developed a routine that allowed us to provide for each other's families – because we were always going to be linked; that was never going to go away – while still avoiding the other. It worked for awhile. I even reasoned that it was for the best. Gale and I wanted different things and seeing each other after everything that had transpired between us would be too painful.

And then Hazelle became ill.

My mother did all she could, but the prognosis seemed grim. More than once she suggested I patch things up with Gale. _Before it's too late_ , was her unspoken warning.

I wanted to go to him, but I couldn't face him. I figured I was the last person he'd want to see. Gale was taking longer shifts at the mine anyway.

So, every day I'd separate a larger-than-normal portion of what I brought back from the woods to send with Prim to take to the Hawthornes, but I never went myself. It was Prim who told me that our neighbor Leevy was spending a lot of time there. Leevy went over every evening, cooking their dinner and tending to the laundry that Hazelle was too weak to do herself. She'd brush Posy's hair and tell her stories before bed. And every night, Gale would walk her home, right up to the door. It wasn't hard to miss; she only lives two houses away.

Then, though no one had expected her to, Hazelle recovered. That only made facing Gale more difficult, having not been there for him in his time of need. So I continued to stay away.

I remember how relieved I was to see him show up at my door one Sunday months later. I thought it meant that he wasn't angry anymore, that we could get back what we'd had. But that wasn't why he had come over. It was to tell me that he was getting married, before I heard it from someone else. I numbly congratulated him before he made a hasty exit.

Everyone assumes that I wish I were in Leevy's place, but that isn't it. The truth is, I have no interest in marrying Gale. I just wish everything could go back to the way it used to be, when we were hunting partners and best friends before all the pressures of marriage and babies ruined us.

I feel a pair of warm hands stilling mine. "I think that's good for now," Peeta says. I look down at what I've done and see that I've gotten carried away. Bits of dough cling all the way from my fingers to my forearms.

"Did I ruin it?" I ask, humiliated to have failed at the one task he gave me.

Peeta looks down at it thoughtfully. "Not ruined, exactly. It's just that the rougher you handle it the more difficult it is to shape afterward."

Great. I'm supposed to be helping him, and all I'm doing is making his job tougher for him. I'm about to suggest that he give me something else to do. Sweep the floors. Wash dishes. Anything that doesn't involve what will go directly into the hands of actual paying customers. I don't even notice right away that Peeta has moved away from me and to the storage closet.

"C'mere," he says. "Let me show you something." He's retrieved a big burlap sack that must be half his height and filled with something I can't identify. A length of rope ties it closed. I watch him as he effortlessly hefts the bag over his shoulder and heads toward the back door leading outside. He looks to me and smiles reassuringly. "Come on."

I follow Peeta past the pig pen to the apple tree where he ties the bag to a sturdy, low-hanging branch. "What is this?" I ask.

He knocks at the bag with his fist so it sways gently in the crisp autumn air. " _This_ ," he says, "is what my brothers and I used to keep from taking out our aggression on the product. Or each other. Go ahead."

What does he want me to do – hit it? Out here? Where people could see me? I may be angry, but not enough to publicly humiliate myself. "Peeta, this is _stupid_."

He flinches, just a little, at the word. It happens so briefly that had I been mid-blink I may not have caught it at all. And then his face instantly reverts back to its normal easy expression. "Come on," he says. "I'll show you." He takes a step closer. "You see, you want to be an arm's length away from it." He stands just close enough so that he can reach out and touch the bag. He curls his right hand into a fist and strikes with enough power to create a loud _thwack_. "See?" he says. "Nothing to it. Now you try."

I move forward, just past Peeta, and imitate his stance. I let my fingers compact into a tight little ball and tentatively hit. Kind of pathetic, but when I look back at Peeta, he's positively beaming at me.

"So?" he asks me. "How was that?"

Good, if I'm being honest. Better than I expected. I tell him so just before I hit it again. And again. I keep going, feeling the anger I'd been carrying with me today rise like steam. It dislodges itself from the pit of my stomach, past my heart, up my throat, and escaping out of the top of my head, dissipating into the air.

When we head back inside, Peeta and I knead and shape bread dough in companionable silence. With rapt attention, I watch him skillfully shape one loaf to resemble a bundle of wheat tied with a braided rope. It's very popular during harvest time, he tells me. He lets me brush the surface with egg whites and milk before it goes into the oven.

As time passes, Peeta gets more chatty. He tells me a story about the time he kicked a soccer ball onto the grocer's roof and got stuck up there trying to get it down that has me laughing until my sides ache. He listens with hushed awe as I recount the tale of getting treed by a brown bear last year.

It's late afternoon when Peeta closes the bakery. Neither his brother nor his mother have come home yet. "I'm really glad you came by today," he says with a shy smile.

Above us, some of the clouds have parted and for the first time all day I can see buttery rays of sunlight. I don't know why, but I feel lighter than I have in months. Like I could float all the way home, my feet hovering an inch above the cobblestone roads that lead back to the Seam. "Me too."


	2. Longest Night

I rinse the threadbare kitchen towel in our washtub and it tints the water pink. I try not to gag. Animal blood I can handle. What I'm washing out is _Prim's_ blood.

It terrified me when she hobbled through the door with a gash in her knee, her trouser leg crimson-streaked. Of course, once I found out what she'd actually been doing, all my initial fear and concern shriveled and compacted into a bitter pellet of anger. I wring the excess water from the towel and reapply it to my sister's wound. She winces at the contact.

"You're lucky you didn't fall and break your neck, you know."

"It wasn't even that high," she says, chin in the air, trying her best to act like she's not in pain. She only mostly succeeds. "And I was right by the fence. I was fine."

Prim's bloody trousers lay in a heap on the floor. The stain will never completely wash out, and someone will have to stitch the torn fabric back together. "You shouldn't even be back there," I snap without meaning to. "Not by yourself."

She scowls at me, and I swear it's like looking at a fairer version of myself. "I'm sixteen. Stop treating me like a child."

She's right. She's not a child. At her age, I was in the woods every day. I've encountered vicious predators, swarms of bees, climbed trees so high that if I'd fallen I would have died the instant I touched the ground. But I've protected Prim from so much that my years and hers shouldn't even be considered the same unit of measurement. I know I should be supportive. Acknowledge that she's growing up and that I trust her. "Well," I say instead, "don't come crying to me when you're mauled by wild dogs."

"I wouldn't come to you," Prim retorts, taking on a tone that she's been using on me for the past two years, one my mother calls _a normal part of growing up_. She should know, I guess. I've used it on her plenty of times. "I'd go to mom," Prim continues. "All the blood would just make you sick, and then you wouldn't be any help at all."

I bite back the curt reply that sits perched on my tongue, reminding myself that I wouldn't even be doing _this_ if my mother were home. I'd stalk off to the woods to take my aggression out on tonight's supper. I look back at Prim's wound. It could be worse. She only scraped her knee on the way down from a tree she'd just climbed. If it had been for some useful reason, like for food or medicine or something, I'd be okay. Proud of her, even. I remember how frightened she was when I tried taking her out there years ago. But she wasn't out there this morning to help put food on the table. Of all the stupid reasons to risk her safety, she had to go into the woods for _mistletoe_.

It's supposed to be part of an old tradition that predates even the Dark Days. Around this time of year, people would place some of it over doorways, and couples caught underneath had to kiss. For good luck or something. I'm still not sure of the reasoning behind any of it, and I don't think Prim knows either. She's more focused on the kissing.

I let Prim bandage her own wound, and once she's finished she tentatively bends her knee a few times like she's testing it. "It's not so bad," she says. "I'll still be able to dance tonight."

Tonight, of course, is the Winter Solstice, the longest night of the year. It's not an official, Capitol-sanctioned holiday, so everyone still has to report to work. But in the evening, to keep from using up our precious resources to heat and light our own homes, many of us in the district gather someplace, like the basement of the Justice Building or the school. Those of us who trade there regularly will congregate at The Hob, where everything inside is cleared out of the way to make room for a dance floor. We show up in our warmest clothes and mingle with our neighbors while Greasy Sae serves soup from a large kettle containing anything from wild dog and shriveled root vegetables to roasted rat meat and whatever was left in the grocer's bin. Several times a night she'll add a bucketful of snow to the broth to stretch it. It's usually awful, but at least it's warm. Mostly, though, tonight is for dancing.

"Good," I tell her, wringing out the kitchen towel one final time before hanging it up on the rack. "I'm not getting stuck with the Sutton boys again this year."

Brock and Cobb Sutton are Ripper's sons. They come to the house a couple times a month to get treated for burns whenever their still explodes. My mother says they're lucky they haven't blown their fingers off. Or worse. They're pleasant enough men, I guess, but they're also loud and handsy and perpetually stink of white liquor. Just the thought of having one of them as a dance partner makes my skin crawl.

Prim traps her bottom lip between her teeth and looks away from me. "Oh. About that," she says. "I invited a couple people..."

Of _course_ she did. I say nothing. There's no use in fighting with her today.

After Prim puts on fresh clothes, she begins to animatedly tell me about Wally, the grocer's son, who's coming by early to help her decorate The Hob for tonight. Any animosity between us from before is forgotten. She's just finished hanging a sprig of mistletoe on the ceiling right by our front door when we hear an urgent knock. Prim visibly startles, but says nothing. "Who is it?" I call out, for Prim's benefit.

"It's Rory," is the knocker's muffled reply.

Prim's eyes go predictably wide. "You answer it, Katniss," she whispers. "I have to finish getting ready."

I roll my eyes as she scurries away. When I open the door, Rory Hawthorne's face is red and his breathing labored. "Is your mother here?" he asks. He shoves his bare, chapped hands in his coat pockets. "Leevy's having her baby."

Just like that, all of the breath leaves my lungs. I've known for months that this was coming, but I'm still not prepared. For it to happen today of all days... Birthings in 12 are a lot like Reaping Day, with worse odds. And they always end the same way – with families either celebrating or quietly shutting themselves away to mourn. If this ends badly, one of the district's few holidays will be forever tainted in my mind. "My mother's out, but I'll give her the message when she comes back."

Rory nods. "Thanks, Katniss. Just send her right over. I'm headed to the mines to give Gale and everyone the news. Maybe they'll even let him go home early."

Gale. It's been two years since the fight that effectively ended our friendship, and my stomach still twists at the mention of his name. I stare down at our cement floor. "Yeah," I say. "Maybe."

Once he's gone, I take a deep, cleansing breath to compose myself before I let anyone see me. "You can come out now," I shout in the direction of the bedroom. "He's gone."

"I wasn't hiding from Rory," Prim announces, unconvincingly, as she reemerges. "So, did you… _you know_ …?" She jerks her head back toward the mistletoe.

It takes a moment to register just what my sister is asking me. "What?" I ask. "Kiss Rory? No. Of course not."

"Katniss!" she bursts out, horrified, as if she hadn't just pointedly avoided him only moments ago. "That's bad luck! You've just _cursed_ him."

"Then _you_ answer the door next time."

That shuts her up. Prim's no stranger to boys having crushes on her. It's just that Rory shows it in his own Rory way. By dropping off rabbits from his daily snare run. Or offering to clean out our rain gutters. It's no use, though. Prim fails to see the romance in dead animals and clean gutters.

I can't help but let my curiosity get the better of me. "How is he cursed?"

Prim winds a lock of her blond hair around her finger. "I don't know. A string of bad luck, I guess?"

Bad luck. The worst bit of bad luck his family could face today floods my mind, and all the warmth drains from my face. "Leevy..."

No!" Prim protests. "Shhh! Don't even say it!" As if merely saying the words could somehow make it a reality.

"This is stupid, Prim. I don't even believe in any of this stuff." I turn away and my eyes land upward toward the cluster of stiff green leaves and waxy white berries. I kick the nearest wall. "Why did you let me answer the door?"

Prim looks about ready to argue with me when my mother hurries into the house. Both her presence and the burst of wintry air that hits us render us silent. To her credit, my mother immediately takes in our matching worried expressions. And Prim's knee. It doesn't take long for the entire story to tumble out of us. Prim going into the woods to get mistletoe and injuring herself. Rory coming to the door and asking after her.

"Do you need my help?" Prim asks as my mother gathers her medical supplies, just the slightest hint of hesitation in her voice. Normally, Prim would leap at the chance to help with a birthing. She's always had an affinity for healing, and her skills have only gotten stronger. But the Winter Solstice dance is something she looks forward to every year. And she's invited a merchant boy. _A couple_ merchant boys, apparently...

I can't help the words that come out of me next. "How is it fair that mom can't go to the Hob tonight and you can? You're both healers. You should both go."

"Oh, stop it, Katniss!" Prim says, her glare slicing right through me. "I didn't ask you."

"I'm sure those boys from Town you invited will understand," I add spitefully. "They can find somewhere else to go tonight."

It's rare to catch sight of fair skin and blond hair in this part of the district, especially on a holiday. When boys from Town make their way into the Seam, they're usually after one thing. Terrifying visions of another birthing taking place in this very house nine months from now play before my eyes. Providing for the three of us is hard enough. As it is, guilt gnaws away at me because I haven't taken a job at the mines. The last thing we need is a hungry new mouth to feed.

"Prim," my mother says gently. "There's no reason why you shouldn't go out tonight, but I may need your help if there are any complications, so I need you to stay where a lot of people can see you in case I send someone to look for you."

Prim nods solemnly, taking her responsibility as a healer's apprentice as seriously as a sixteen year-old on the Winter Solstice can. As she bounds toward our shared bedroom to finish getting ready, my mother catches my eye. She gives me a brief, near-imperceptible nod, which I return. We still have a long way to go toward regaining anything close to the relationship we had before my father died, but right now it's just nice feeling like part of a team again.

XXxxXX

The Hob is already bustling by the time I arrive that evening. Most of the booths and tables are cleared out of the way to make room for a dance floor. Paper chains stretch from wall to wall. The sycamore balls I gathered for Prim last summer are strung together and hang from the ceiling. A trio of fiddlers and a lone banjo player stand on crates playing a traditional district 12 tune while a small crowd claps in time to the music. One of Greasy Sae's granddaughters ladles steaming cups of pine needle tea to snow-covered miners and their families. I spot Prim, who'd left long before I did, chatting animatedly with a group of towheaded merchant boys in the far corner of the room. She looks up and gives me a quick wave before turning her attention back to her...friends.

I groan as a pair of tall, lanky figures move unsteadily toward me. They already reek of their mother's white liquor.

"Drunk already?" I ask. "How do you expect to make any money if you keep drinking all your product?"

Brock, the older of the two, flashes a broken-toothed grin. He hiccups. "Don't you worry about us, Katniss. We do all right."

It's true. An especially good batch from Ripper's still is as good as currency, even in Town. Even though they both aged out of the Reaping years ago, neither of them have had to work in the mines. They can afford to occasionally imbibe. And when they do, they're extra friendly.

"So, you gonna save us a dance, Katniss?" Cobb pipes up. He drapes a long, rail-thin arm around my shoulder.

I shrug it off and side-step away from him. "I already have a partner," I say stiffly.

"Who? Prim?" Cobb asks with a laugh. "Looks like she's otherwise occupied." Brock hiccups again.

"I think she meant me, actually," says a familiar voice from behind. I know it's him without even having to turn around, though I'm still shocked he's here. Peeta Mellark isn't exactly the type to slum it in the Seam. But here he is, bundled up in a long, dark wool coat with large buttons down the front, a fine maroon scarf snugly knotted at his throat.

I don't see Peeta outside the bakery very often, but every once in awhile I might run into him at the public market in Town. When that happens, he'll give me a lopsided grin and a friendly "Hey, stranger," but, even though we've gotten to know each other a little bit in the past year or so, we rarely talk about anything personal.

Cobb raises his brows, but he doesn't argue. "Guess your sister comes by it honestly."

Brock takes it a little better. He gives me a bright, genuine smile before adding, "Yeah, must be the Everdeen in you."

They stagger away, and I turn to Peeta. I'm still not sure how I feel about what just happened, especially the digs at my family's expense, true as it all may be. After all, my father managed to convince my mother to leave Town and marry him. And Prim's had merchant suitors since she turned fifteen. She's currently surrounded by three of them. But I can honestly say that I'm the exception. I don't have any special desire for people from Town, and I don't like the implication that I do. None of this is Peeta's fault, though. He was just trying to get the Sutton boys off my back. I'm not entirely ungrateful. "You didn't have to do that, you know," I manage to say neutrally. "I could've handled them myself."

"Don't I know it," he says with a laugh, and then leans forward to conspiratorially whisper, "I was actually protecting them from _you_."

I'm trying very hard not to smile. It's not working. "Shut up. I'm not even armed."

"I think you underestimate just how dangerous you can be," he says lowly, "with or without a weapon." And then he grins, which makes _me_ grin. Brock's still hovering nearby, looking nowhere in particular, swaying like a branch in the wind. Next to him, Cobb's gaze is fastened on me, as if checking to make sure I'm really not free to dance with him. I have only a couple of options – dance with Cobb, which sounds repulsive; or refuse, and risk alienating Ripper. She's always been a good customer, and my mother relies on her white liquor to make tinctures. Doing anything that might cause a scene tonight isn't a good idea. My last option is to go ahead and dance with Peeta. So, before I know what I'm doing, I take his hand as a new song starts to play, and pull him to the center toward the dancers. Tonight's for dancing, after all, and if it can't be with Prim, it might as well be with Peeta.

We join two others to form a circle, spinning along to the music until the tempo picks up and we break apart, being passed around to different partners. Prim and I beam at each other from across the room when we catch the other's eye. I'm relieved to see that she's chatting with one of Greasy Sae's granddaughters, her merchant friends sitting forgotten on the floor in the corner playing cards. I don't have time to think much of it, because then I'm reunited with Peeta. My hand stays clasped in his even as the music stops while the musicians take a break. Prim's gloves had finally unraveled to practically nothing, so I gave her mine. I haven't gotten the chance to get new ones yet. The warmth of Peeta's gloved hand against my chilled fingers feels so nice, I almost don't want to let go, though that's exactly what I do.

Across from me, Bristel, one of Gale's crewmates in the mines, hops off her her crate and puts her fiddle back in its case. The other musicians are all right, but Bristel's playing is something special. Sometimes she'll be hired out to play at toastings or in the town square on New Year's. It's a shame, really, that someone so talented has to be shut up underground twelve hours a day. I see her whisper something to Thom, and then the pair make their way over to us. "You hear anything yet, Katniss?" Bristel asks me.

Ugh. I knew this would happen, that people would ask me about Gale and Leevy's baby, being the healer's daughter and all. And it's just about the last thing I want to think about, especially publicly.

I shake my head.

"Probably too soon to tell," Thom concedes.

I force my lips to curve upward. My cheeks ache from the effort. "My mother only went out there a few hours ago," I tell them.

"First one takes all day," Thom says, leaning toward Bristel as if saying it for her benefit. "Sometimes longer."

Bristel bounces on her toes, eyes alight with excitement. "When Rory came by with the news, Gale about shot right out of there. Foreman thought he was sick. He didn't fire him, of course, just docked his pay. Don't suppose Gale'll mind too much, considering. You know how he is about family."

I don't know how to respond to any of this. The feelings threatening to bubble to the surface are far too private for such a public conversation. We're silent for a moment until Peeta saves me.

"Your playing was incredible," he says to Bristel. He extends a hand to her. "I'm Peeta. I'm...I trade with Katniss."

Thom also introduces himself to Peeta, and they spend a few moments exchanging pleasantries. The subject of Gale and his baby never comes up again. When Thom and Bristel leave, Peeta gives me a quizzical look, but I'm not up to explaining it to him. "What are you doing here?" I blurt out, having to almost shout over the music that has just started up again.

Peeta laughs. "Nice to see you too, Katniss. You know that I've been here for at least ten minutes, don't you?"

I purse my lips. "It's just, I've never seen you here before."

Peeta's expression drains of any humor. "I'm looking for my brother, actually. Someone said he might have shown up here."

There's no need to ask which brother he means. Certainly not his serious, married oldest brother. Even though it's not likely to do much good, I suggest we ask around. It's awkward approaching people I barely know, people I only discuss trades with, especially with a blond interloper at my side. I hesitate when we get to the Suttons. They've managed to wrench free a few of Prim's sycamore balls, and for the past couple of minutes Cobb's been trying to lob them at the musicians, but misses. Eventually, Thom steps in, prying the last prickly ball from Cobb's fist, and says something that makes both brothers flinch. I'm not sure I want to talk to them again – I've already escaped them once thanks to Peeta – but they might know something. They do dispense the white liquor, after all.

"We're looking for one of the baker's sons," I say once we've come up to them.

Brock points to Peeta.

"The middle one," I snap.

Again, Brock extends a single wobbly finger toward Peeta.

"Have you seen my brother Rye tonight?" Peeta interjects, an edge of irritation woven into his normally mild tone. The Suttons are as blank as fresh snowfall, as if Peeta had just spoken gibberish. "You know – looks kind of like me, sometimes buys your alcohol? Did anyone pay you in sourdough rolls today?"

"Oh, him? Yeah, bought two bottles," Cobb pipes up. "Saw him heading out with Lissy Watkins earlier. Probably headed back to her place, on account of it being too cold for the slag heap."

"I know where that is," I say to Peeta, ignoring the Suttons completely. "I'll take you there."

"You shouldn't have to leave on my account," Peeta says. "If you just told me which house it is, I can find it."

I suppose I could, except that most of the houses in the Seam look the same. I also can't help but see this as an opportunity to pay him back for the lifesaving bread he gave me when we were kids. I still have a long way to go before we're even. Though my mind is already made up, my resolve only strengthens when I spot Prim showing off the decorations to Greasy Sae's granddaughter, letting the girl play with one of the paper chains. Her friends are standing in that same corner, looking bored as they toss a ball back and forth. She doesn't need my supervision. She'll be just fine. I trap Peeta's hand in both of mine. "Come on," I say, leading him out the door.

Outside, fat snowflakes saturate the air. Ice-sheathed tree branches glitter like Capitol gems in the moonlight. Beautiful. It's in stark contrast to the cinder streets that crunch beneath our boots. I pull my hunting jacket up around my neck as the wind bites at our skin, but it offers little protection. Peeta must notice, and removes his scarf. He extends it toward me. I resist at first, but he drapes it over me before I have the chance to really protest. The soft material is already toasty from his body heat. I find that I don't have it in me to take it off. He lifts the collar of his coat to act as a shield against the cold, and we continue on our way.

We almost reach the Watkin house when we find Rye leaning against the rotted wood siding of a tiny windowless shack. Lissy is nowhere to be found. Rye takes a long drag from a half-filled bottle of clear liquid. I can smell him from here.

Peeta's face takes on a hard look, one I've never seen him wear, his jaw clenched tight. A muscle tics in his left cheek.

Rye looks over at us with glassy, unfocussed eyes. "Hey, if it isn't my favorite little brother," he slurs, punctuated with a mirthless laugh. "You here to score points with mom?"

"More like save you from yourself," Peeta says. He takes a step forward. "Come on. We're leaving." It's a command rather than a request.

"Why? So I can get yelled at while you come home the hero?" Rye accuses. He tries to stand up straighter, but he can't keep his balance. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"You think I wanted to spend half the night looking for you?" Peeta erupts, face reddening. "Mom told me to bring you home. And she didn't exactly give me much of a choice."

Rye's lips curl into a sneer, and he gives mock applause. "Well, bravo for being the model son. Always doing what you're told. Consider this a favor." His eyes cut toward me. "Make that two favors."

I'm not certain what that means. I just know that I wish I could draw a curtain between us. Or erect a fifty foot fence. Anything to separate myself from what should be a private moment. Instead, I just stand there, as frozen as the ground beneath me, completely helpless. I feel an urge to occupy my hands, so I rub the soft material of Peeta's scarf between my thumb and forefinger.

With two strides, Peeta's a hairsbreadth away from Rye and easily pries the liquor bottle from his brother's hands. Rye's reaction time is slow enough that Peeta is able to smash the bottle against the side of the building before Rye lunges toward him. He slams Peeta to the ground, tumbling into the snow right along with him. Peeta easily flips Rye over, a maneuver I recognize from those wrestling tournaments at school. They continue to wrestle in the snow, both struggling to gain the upper hand.

I don't know what else to do, so I grasp any icy fistful of snow in my bare hand, compact it into a ball. And I throw. There isn't the same precision as when I use an arrow, but it still connects with my target. Rye swipes at the snow that drips down his haggard face. He stands up. "I paid good money for that bottle," he sputters in Peeta's direction, and then stumbles away into the darkness. Peeta doesn't bother to stop him. He punches the side of the building, and then slumps down beside it. His head drops onto his good hand. I approach him slowly, as if he were a wounded animal, and crouch into a sitting position beside him.

"You didn't have to do that," he says glumly.

We sit there for the longest time, neither of us speaking.

"When my father died," he says at last, voice ragged, "the bakery officially became my mother's, giving her the power to choose which one of us would get to inherit it. Normally it goes to the oldest. But Ander is happy to run the shoe shop with Delly. He still helps out at home sometimes, but he already has a business. He doesn't need the bakery too. So it really _should_ go to Rye, as the next oldest. But she hasn't ruled me out, and let's just say that Rye's not happy about that."

The idea of Peeta not getting the bakery jolts me. Peeta takes so much pride in his work. There's the way he can rattle off a dozen facts about a single type of bread. The gorgeous, startlingly realistic details of the cookies and cakes he decorates. I feel the weight of the injustice like a heavy coat. "You'd make a much better baker than Rye," I say.

Peeta gives me a pained little smile. "I'd like to think so," he says.

Suddenly every squabble I've ever had with Prim flashes before me. Every single one seems so inconsequential compared to what I just witnessed. "Did you and Rye get along better before this happened?" I ask.

Peeta nods. "Oh, definitely. We were never as close as some, but...it's like we're adversaries now. Pitted against each other. That's what she does. It's how she keeps us in line." His voice breaks, and he tugs at his blond curls, slightly damp from the falling snow. He looks so miserable, it's all I can do not to reach out to him. "She has so much more control over our lives now that she has something to hold over our heads."

"So why don't you share it?" I ask gently, finding myself desperate for a way to comfort him. "That way, no matter what the w – what your mother decides, you'll both get what you want."

He gives a rueful shake of his head. "It's hard enough to support one family. Even five of us was one too many at times. What happens if we get married, have children?"

 _So don't_ , I think. But that doesn't seem fair. Plus it's not like he can control what Rye does. I don't know what to say to him after that, so I link my fingers with his and squeeze.

Eventually, we head toward my house. I want to get a look at his injured hand. The moon is so full and bright in the sky, we don't even need lanterns to guide us through the Seam. Peeta casts a glance at me and offers a soft smile. "You know, I've spent all night complaining about my problems; it would be impolite if I didn't at least give you the opportunity to talk about what's bothering you."

I look straight ahead as we continue walking. "Nothing's bothering me."

"Come on, Katniss." He lays a gentle hand on my shoulder and stops us, coaxing me toward him. "We've known each other for more than a year now. I can recognize your Angry Face when I see it."

I scowl at him. " _Every_ face is my Angry Face."

His answering smile shines more brightly than the snow in the moonlight. "No, see, that's your I'm-Annoyed-With-Peeta-For-Making-Me-Confront-My-Feelings Face."

I shoot him a withering glare, but this only makes him laugh.

"Now _that's_ your Angry Face," he says. "Or at least, a pretty great imitation of it."

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling, and we start walking again. Even if I want to talk to Peeta, which I don't, I have no idea where to begin. There's so much, so I start with the biggest. "Gale's wife's having their baby tonight," I say eventually.

Peeta's quiet. He looks down at his boots. "I remember seeing you two together. You used to be inseparable."

"We were," I say, my voice catching on the last word. I pretend to cough. Peeta says nothing. We reach my house and stop at the front door, and I see that Peeta's neck and cheeks are flushed. I remove his scarf and begin to give it back, but he gently refuses.

"Keep it," he says. "It looks better on you."

"Oh, yeah," I say, rolling my eyes. "I bet it goes great with my hunting jacket. It really complements all the dirt and dried animal blood."

"Oh, _especially_ the dried blood," he says with a grin. "I'm serious, though, Katniss. Keep it. It's the least I can do after you helped me tonight."

I shrug. "I didn't really do anything."

"You did," he insists. "You were...you're a good friend."

I'm really not. Just ask Gale. But I don't want to go into it. Instead, I lead Peeta inside. Hitting the wall broke the skin, even through his glove. It's far from my favorite activity, but still, I clean and bandage his injury so it won't get infected.

Afterward, as Peeta gets ready to leave, he pauses at the blood-stained towel from earlier drying on the rack. "You weren't my only patient today," I tell him.

"Figures," he says softly. "You have a knack for this. It must run in the family."

"Yeah," I snort. "It runs right past me. Prim and my mother are the healers, not me."

We find ourselves standing by the door, and my eyes catch sight of the mistletoe above us. When Peeta gets home, he'll be returning to an irate mother and a drunk, belligerent brother. I can't do anything to change the scene he'll be walking into, but maybe, as silly as it sounds, I can keep it from being worse. I rise up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek, just the faintest whisper of my lips against him. When I pull back, Peeta's eyes are comically wide, his mouth agape. I fumble for an explanation. "For good luck," I tell him.

Recognition seems to bloom on his face as Peeta's gaze travels upward. He must know what it means, too. "Of course," he says. "And...thanks. You've made what would have been a miserable night more than bearable."

"You too," I say. For some reason, being around Peeta has this way of lifting my spirits.

Once Peeta's gone, my hollow stomach reminds me that I never got a chance to eat anything at the Hob. I brew myself some mint tea and sit at the kitchen table. I must fall asleep there, because I'm startled awake by Prim standing over me.

When my mother comes through the door a moment later, our attention snaps in her direction and she gives us a tired smile. "A girl," she tells us. "Perfectly healthy."

Prim looks as relieved as I am at the news. As my mother heads off to bed, Prim pours herself a mug of the now-cold tea and sits beside me. She tells me about her night, that the boys from Town weren't happy with her for spending almost the entire time with Greasy Sae's granddaughter Fern, the one who's not quite right. Fern wanders around the Hob in her own little world, like a pet that people give scraps of food to. But no one really knows how to relate to her. "I could tell she was sad, but she couldn't tell any of us why," Prim continues, "so I wanted to cheer her up. And then I didn't want to abandon her."

"So you abandoned your friends instead?" I ask, out of curiosity rather than judgment.

Prim shrugs. "No big loss. I guess I'm holding out for someone who wouldn't get mad at that kind of thing. Someone who would've helped me cheer up Fern instead of pouting. Like dad. I know that's what he would have done." Her eyes start misting, like they usually do when anyone brings up our father.

I launch out of my seat and throw my arms tightly around my sister. She returns the embrace, but quickly pushes away from me looking confused. "What's that for?"

"I just...I'm really glad you're my sister," I say. Knowing just how bad things are between Peeta and his brother put a lot into perspective for me.

Prim's face breaks out into a grin that brightens our tiny house. "I'm glad you're my sister too."

* * *

I'm lastleaf on Tumblr if you want to say hi.


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